I don’t like the look on her face.
It’s full of defeat. Sadness.
“What’s wrong, Sweet Girl?” My words are loud in the empty room.
Payton has been sitting on her couch for the last hour––possibly longer, but that’s how long I’ve been observing––and she hasn’t moved. She’s just staring off into space with an utterly dejected look on her face.
I want to ask her what’s wrong. Ask who I need to bury for making her look that way.
But I can’t do that.
Because she can’t know that I’m here. Watching.
If King could see me now, huddled up in an unoccupied apartment across the street from Payton’s place, using binoculars to soak in every detail of her life, he’d laugh his fucking ass off.
But there’s just something about this woman that I can’t shake.
I know it’s insane. Certifiably psychotic. But considering I’ve probably killed more people than I’ve fucked, I’m not really concerned about the state of my mental health anymore.
She moves, and I focus my gaze to watch as she brushes the backs of her hands over her cheeks.
My fingers tighten around the binoculars. “Who made you cry?”
It’s her air of innocence. That’s what gets me. What draws me to her.
It doesn’t even make sense. Not after what King pulled up about her past. About all the ER visits. The stitches. The fractured bones. With everything she’s been through, she shouldn’t feel so… precious.
The plastic pops with a crack under my grip.
You need to leave her alone. Knowing you will only cause her more pain.
I’ve told myself this same thing, time and time again.
I can only offer her danger and heartache. There’s nothing safe about knowing me. No matter how much I wish it were different.
Slowly, I lower my hands. The magnified view of my obsession slipping away.
My eyes stay on her, but I’ve lost her features. Her sorrowful eyes now hidden by distance.
Leave.
Leave now and never come back.
But as I start to stand, so does Payton.
I freeze.
She’s walking across her small living room, toward me, and my heart beats harder with each step.
Payton stops with her hand resting on the handle of the sliding glass door, the one I walked through a few weeks ago. She blinks, then heaves the door open.
A gust of wind, that I know is cold, blows through the opening, sending her hair flying around her tear-splotched face.
But she doesn’t move out onto the little balcony.
“What are you doing, Payton?”
I step closer to the window.
She takes a step back. And then another, causing her hand to fall away from the door.
“Payton,” I growl her name into the dark room.
Her shoulders rise with one final deep breath, then she turns away and walks out of view.
Leaving the door open… for me.
